


The Amber of This Moment

by Kangofu_CB



Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: (the sex is not part of the job), Blow Jobs, Canon Disabled Character, Deaf Clint Barton, Disabled Bucky Barnes, Fake/Pretend Relationship, First Meetings, Hand Jobs, M/M, Modern Bucky Barnes, Not Canon Compliant, Sex Work, Tattooed Bucky Barnes, War Veteran Bucky Barnes, descriptions of canon-typical violence and war injuries, hired date, modern bucky x hawkeye, not sure sex work applies but just in case, was there any doubt this was gonna end in sex?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-04
Updated: 2020-03-04
Packaged: 2021-02-23 07:27:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23007895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kangofu_CB/pseuds/Kangofu_CB
Summary: When Clint needs a date to Kate's wedding, Natasha 'knows a guy'.The guy isn't anything like what Clint expected, but he might just be everything he didn't know he needed.**Bucky's got a lot of side hustles - everything from dog walking to document translating - but his most lucrative is also his least advertised.  He occasionally hires himself out as arm candy for anyone willing to shell out the cash.He was never counting on Hawkeye as a client.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton
Comments: 108
Kudos: 639
Collections: MHEA Harlequin Hoopla Prompt Challenge 2020, Winterhawk Bingo





	The Amber of This Moment

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Marvel Happily Ever After's prompt of 'hired date for a wedding', part of their Romance line, from February 21; it also fills my Winterhawk Bingo square of 'Tattooed Bucky'.

_Are you doing anything Saturday night?_

Bucky blinks at the text. It’s from Natalia, someone he knows only in passing, and only because he’s still got security clearance left over from when he was in the service, and she’d needed some documents translated in a hurry. He’d done a good enough job that it’s become something of a regular occurence. Bucky still doesn’t know how she’d even found him. It’s a mystery Bucky doesn’t look at too closely, because it pays well and he doesn’t have to leave his apartment to do it. 

Since his medical discharge, Bucky does a lot of different things for money. He walks dogs and he babysits for his kid sister, tutors in science and Russian, picks up odd jobs on Craigslist like moving furniture (surprisingly lucrative) or helping with catering (disappointingly not), and occasionally he translates Top Secret government documents for a diminutive redhead with a suspicious gaze. He does all these things and more under the table for cash, because he gets Army disability pay - which covers the basics and the basics only - and the rest of the time he has physical therapy appointments and regular therapy appointments and group therapy appointments. Add to that that he’s at Tony Stark’s mercy half the time because he’s one of the only successful candidates of his prosthetic trial, which means a regular job is out. 

Saturday night is kind of an odd time for Natalia to need him for translating or interpreting work though; usually she sends him a secure email with an encrypted file and a deadline. 

He chews on his lip as he checks his calendar. At the moment, there’s nothing for Saturday night, which is a sad reflection on his love life and his side hustles, if he’s being honest.

 _Why?_ he sends back. 

_I’ve got an idiot friend who needs a date to a wedding._

Oh. It’s for his other-other job then. Natalia is a spy, Bucky’s convinced, he’s _been_ convinced, but honestly this is the cincher. No one, not even Becca, knows that he occasionally hires himself out as a semi-convincing significant other. It’s probably the most lucrative thing he does, but it’s also the most inconvenient one, because it takes up time Bucky could be spending going on real dates or with his friends. He sighs. 

_It’ll cost you double. I have to get my suit cleaned._

Money is money, and in this economy Bucky will take what he can get. Even if it’s a weird date with the friend-of-an-acquaintance at the wedding of someone he’s never met. 

**

Bucky doesn't know what he was expecting, but a slightly run-down building in Bed-Stuy and an apartment labeled with a crooked purple ‘H’ isn’t it. The building isn’t seedy - it’s older, but homey. There are clear signs that families live in the building, and that someone is taking the security pretty seriously, because the deadbolts all look brand new and Bucky’d had to enter a password on a keypad to even get in the front door. 

What he really isn’t expecting, though, is the person who opens the door when he knocks for the third time. 

_Knock louder_ was all Natalia had told him when he’d texted her to confirm the address because he’d got no response to his first two attempts. 

The man who opens the door is big, blond, and disheveled. He’s wearing a suit, but it looks like he lost a fight with it in order to get it on, and it’s stretched just a smidge tightly across the shoulders. His shirt underneath is just a little bit wrinkled, and his bowtie is hanging sadly around his neck, crumpled like there have been multiple failed attempts to tie it. The man is also Hawkeye, and it takes every ounce of Bucky’s jaded, millennial soul to not freak out. 

Bucky has a very stupid, very un-secret celebrity crush on Hawkeye. He tells himself and everyone else that he just admires the fact that Hawkeye is both unenhanced _and_ disabled - it’s common knowledge that he’s deaf - and still manages to not only keep up with a superhero team, but is one of their best assets. The truth is, though Bucky does admire those things, he’s actually fuckin’ _thirsty_ is what he is. Thirsty to the degree that Becca always sends him any fan photos or Tweets she runs across, and Bucky himself follows the official Instagram, though it’s mostly photos of dogs and pizza. And archery targets. And occasionally biceps. 

He lives for those biceps.

And now he’s seeing them live and _in person_. 

It is very hard not to freak the fuck out, but somehow Bucky manages it. 

“Are you James?” Hawkeye asks, and he looks an odd combination of suspicious and flustered that Bucky finds extremely appealing. 

“Call me Bucky,” Bucky tells him, and edges his way inside the apartment, Hawkeye giving ground automatically as Bucky steps through the door. “Only Natalia calls me James, and only because she knows I hate it.”

Hawkeye snorts, but he shuts the door behind Bucky with a kind of resigned finality. “Clint,” he says, holding his hand out like they’re going to _shake hands_ and then go pretend to be boyfriends at a wedding. Bucky rolls his eyes. 

“You always shake hands with your boyfriend?” Bucky smirks as he says it, and Hawkeye - _Clint_ \- flushes high across his cheekbones and scratches awkwardly at the back of his neck with the hand he’d previously been holding out. He’s got a line of butterfly bandages along his hairline and his knuckles are badly bruised, Bucky notes, and remembers there’d been some kind of Avenger scuffle in Queens two days previous. Mole people or something. All Bucky knows is there was a truly epic photo of Hawkeye in an artfully-ripped purple t-shirt, bow drawn back, and every muscle in his back as taut as the string of his weapon. He’s got it saved on his phone in a folder called ‘tax receipts’ in the hopes that if he dies, no one will go through it. 

“Sorry,” Clint tells him, sounding as awkward as he looks, and Bucky finds it disgustingly endearing. 

“Natalia didn’t tell me my date was Hawkeye,” Bucky says. 

Clint blushes harder, and he mutters something unflattering in Russian about Natalia that makes Bucky smile.

“You shouldn’t talk about her father that way,” Bucky tells him mildly. “I think she could kill you with her pinky.” Clint gives him a surprised look, and Bucky winks. “You need some help with that?” he asks, motioning at the sad bow tie.

“Sure,” Clint says, and he straightens up, turning towards Bucky fully, tilting his chin. 

Bucky can’t tie a bowtie on another person - he’s only ever tied one for himself, and not with his new arm - but he’s willing to give it a go. He’s got to get the buttons on the shirt fastened before he convinces Clint to sit down in a goddamn chair so that he can reach the damn tie anyway. He reaches out with both hands, intending to fasten the remaining three buttons on the shirt and hide the glimpse of collarbone that he kind of wants to _lick_ , when he finds his left wrist in an implacable grip, and a look of startled fury on Clint’s face.

It takes Bucky a second to figure it out, probably because he’s still kind of thinking about Clint’s bare skin. 

“Hey,” he says, the same way he talks to guys who are in his group therapy and having what they downplay as ‘a moment’. It’s low and calm, cautious. “Hey, it’s just my arm,” he says, waggling the fingers that are still free. The pressure sensors in the arm tell him that, if it were his other hand, he’d probably be concerned about his circulation, and possibly about damage to his wrist. As it is, the arm itself recalibrates, the plates shifting and startling Clint further. 

Bucky could break out of the grip - he’s combat trained, and the arm is significantly stronger and more wear-resistant than one of flesh-and-bone would be - but he doesn’t think that would help the situation. Instead, he uses his right hand to tug the sleeve of his suit up and unbutton his cuff, moving slowly and carefully, Clint’s eyes tracking his every move. Hawkeye is in every line of his body; gone is the awkward and endearing man Bucky had just seen. Bucky pulls his sleeve up nearly to his elbow so that Clint can see his forearm, shiny metal to match his fingers. 

“It’s just my arm,” he says again. “It’s not a weapon.” Or at least, Bucky never intends to use it as a weapon, though Stark has assured him he could probably put his fist through several meters of wall, and the adamantium is bullet-proof. “Sorry I startled you.”

Clint shakes his head and his grip loosens, but he doesn’t let go. He’s giving Bucky a look that is oddly reminiscent of Natalia, calculating and evaluating, and Bucky recalls that he was a government agent before he was an Avenger, according to less-than-reputable sources. “I’m-” he starts, and then falls silent again, like he’s not sure what to say. Bucky’s pretty convinced Clint has decided he’s not a threat after all, but he can’t quite let himself believe it. 

“I got blown up,” Bucky says, because it’s better to rip the bandaid off than to dance around the subject. 

Clint’s eyes go wide, and he opens his mouth to speak, but Bucky decides to just go for broke before he can think better of it, and speaks over him before he can get a word in edgewise. 

“I was in Afghanistan, before Tony Stark got captured. And my unit got attacked, and I got blown up. Lost the full arm, just below the shoulder.” He takes a deep breath and tries not to think of the smell of his own blood, hot in the sand, or waking up in a med-evac screaming and having to be sedated again and again before being rushed into surgery. “Afterwards,” he says, skipping over the gruesome bits that aren’t first or even tenth date talk, are, in fact, mostly therapy talk, “after Tony Stark became Iron Man, he did some digging, and it turns out the bomb that blew me up was Stark Industries. So.” He waggles his fingers again, the grip around his wrist now almost slack. “Stark Prosthetic trial. It goes all the way to the shoulder. I can show you, if it’ll help.”

Bucky occasionally picks up work at the local community college as a live model for art students, often in the buff, so stripping out of his jacket and shirt for Hawkeye falls more into fantasy territory than discomfort, though he’s aware the prosthetic and the scarring may be off-putting. It has been, in the past. Bucky’s mostly made peace with it. 

Clint lets go of his wrist slowly, and Bucky resists the urge to rub at it. The sensation of pain is a phantom one, more an ingrained response than any actual need to do anything. His wrist doesn’t hurt because it doesn’t have pain receptors, and even if it did, Clint hadn’t grabbed him nearly hard enough to do any real damage. Bucky reaches for his own tie instead - a black, skinny thing to go with the slim cut of his suit, equally appropriate for a wedding, a funeral, or a formal dinner - and begins unknotting it. Clint makes an odd noise in the back of his throat, almost like he’s going to protest, but Bucky gives him what he knows is a cocky grin, and he subsides. 

How many people can say they took their clothes off for Hawkeye?

Bucky doesn’t know, but he’s fine with being on the list. He lets the tie dangle around his shirt collar and undoes the first couple of buttons before shrugging the jacket off. He almost hands it to Clint, but he’s not quite cheeky enough to do it, so he drapes it over the back of a nearby chair instead. The tie follows, lying across the black wool of the suit haphazardly. Bucky’d rather see both of them piled in a messy heap on Clint’s bedroom floor, but since he’ll have to wear them to the upcoming wedding - provided Clint still wants to take him - it’s better to keep them as wrinkle-free as possible. He unbuttons his shirt slowly, revealing teasing glimpses of skin. If pressed, Bucky would say it was because he was trying to keep the mood of the room calm, not spook Clint again, but the reality is probably somewhere between that and a desperate tease, because Clint is watching him with wide eyes and breathing heavily in a way that doesn’t suggest panic _at all_. 

The shirt follows the jacket and the tie, pulled out of the waist of his pants and shrugged off a little carelessly before Bucky twists to toss it over the chair. 

Clint doesn’t look panicked. Clint looks hungry. 

And Bucky-

Bucky knows what he looks like. Sure there’s scarring, and the metal arm - grafted onto his shoulder in an obviously surgical way - but he’s also young and fit and relatively good looking. Plus there’s all the other ways Bucky has taken to modifying his body in a way that _he_ wants to, instead of just surgery after surgery to ‘fix’ him. He’d had a few tattoos from the Army - he’s got the Howling Commandos insignia tattooed on his right pec, and there’s a classic sniper tattoo across his ribs that was only slightly damaged by everything he’s been through - but he’s added to the collection as he’s progressed in his recovery too. His therapist says things about ‘reclamation’, but Bucky just knows it feels good to do whatever he likes with his body. So he’s got watercolor galaxies on his shoulder, and literary quotes, and a garden of floral design all around the prosthetic arm, hiding the scars in some places and emphasizing them in others. He’s also got matching silver barbells through his nipples, and the Pisces constellation on his sternum. 

There’s no grand design to it, just a collection of things that tell the story of Bucky Barnes; some of that story is messy and really believes Mercury is often in _fucking_ retrograde, and some of it is old injury, and some of it an intense love for _The Iliad_. 

Clint licks his lips, and clears his throat. “Sorry,” he says, but it comes out hoarse and a little breathless. 

Bucky shrugs, tucking his hands into his pockets, forcing himself to look and feel casual. Clint is still staring, almost as though he’s not even aware of it, his eyes flicking over Bucky’s bare skin. He barely glances at his prosthetic arm, though Bucky had seen him clock it first, assessing and then dismissing it as a threat. Now he’s just looking to look, and Bucky likes it, so he lets him. “It’s fine, we’ve got time.”

Clint’s eyes flick to the clock and back to Bucky. They do have time though, Natalia had sent him the details of the wedding and the ceremony doesn’t start for an hour and a half. Bucky had budgeted time for taking the subway to Manhattan, but with the amount of money Natalia’s given him for this he can spring for a cab.

“Still need help with that tie?”

Clint snorts, and his shoulders abruptly slump, all the trained poise draining out of him. “Sure,” he says. “Why not?”

Bucky grins. “You got a mirror in this place?”

Clint leads him into a typically tiny New York bathroom under the stairs, a tight fit for both of them under any circumstances, but especially if Bucky’s meant to be helping Clint tie a silk bow tie. His chin barely tops Clint’s shoulder where he can see both of them in the mirror - there’s no way he can contort himself to reach the man’s neck. 

“Gimme your jacket,” Bucky orders, and Clint shrugs out of it, struggling a little to get the sleeves over his biceps and unintentionally giving Bucky a show. Bucky throws the jacket over the shower curtain rod - it’s already wrinkled anyway - and maneuvers Clint into sitting on the closed toilet facing the mirror, where Bucky can lean against his back and get his arms around his shoulders. If his fingers graze a little more skin than necessary buttoning up shirt buttons, well, Clint isn’t objecting and Bucky will take what he can get. 

Once he’s got the shirt buttoned, he turns Clint’s collar up and pulls at the bow tie, evening it out. He’s grateful for the recent upgrades to the fine motor dexterity of his hand because he was finally able to braid his hair, but the silk of the tie keeps trying to slip out of his metal fingertips. He’s concentrating so hard on what he’s doing that he doesn’t realize he’s pressed all up against Clint’s back until Clint clears his throat a little awkwardly, and Bucky looks up to meet his gaze in the mirror. He’s flushed high on his cheeks and up his throat, and he’s holding himself very, very still.

“So, uh,” Clint says, “is the seduction part of the service?”

Bucky doesn’t answer him for a long moment, partly because he’s finally got the finicky silk in the perfect position and he’s not willing to risk the knot slipping, and partly because he’s thinking about how to answer. He’d forgotten, just for a second, that this is a job. 

“I’m not sure helping someone put their clothes _on_ counts as seduction,” Bucky says, working to keep his voice steady. He tightens the knot he’s been carefully working on and then steps back, leaving a few inches of space between them, then takes a deep breath. “And the only professional service that I offer is eye candy.” He meets Clint’s eyes again and then says, very deliberately, because nothing ventured means nothing gained, “but I _am_ a big fan.”

“Oh thank god,” Clint says, and twists around to pull Bucky into his lap. The wool of Clint’s pants stretched tight over his thighs and the heat of Clint’s skin under him searing through his clothes. 

Sitting like this they’re almost exactly the same height, their mouths lining up perfectly, which is good because Clint is covering Bucky’s mouth with his, hot and needy. Bucky makes an involuntary noise in the back of his throat as he leans into the kiss, his hands coming up to cup Clint’s face. Clint nips at his lower lip, sucking it into his mouth, before his tongue sweeps between Bucky’s lips, delving in to taste. Bucky meets him, sucking on Clint’s tongue before returning the favor, giving Clint’s mouth teasing swipes and dragging the tip of his tongue behind Clint’s teeth.

Clint groans, long and low, the sound rumbling in his chest against Bucky and making his dick perk up in his pants. He breaks the kiss off, breathing heavily and staring at Bucky with wide eyes. “Is your tongue pierced too?”

Bucky clicks the little metal bar against his teeth and grins, before sticking his tongue out so that Clint can see the glint of silver in the muted yellow glow of the bathroom lights. “You should see what else I’ve got pierced,” he teases, tensing his thighs and scooting forward in Clint’s lap, in case the meaning isn’t clear. 

“Fuck’s sake,” Clint bites out, and then he’s standing up, lifting Bucky with an arm under his ass and turning him so that he’s sitting on the bathroom counter, his legs wrapped around Clint’s waist. Clint’s taller like this, leaning down to kiss Bucky again, sucking Bucky’s tongue into his mouth and flicking the barbell with his tongue and teeth, exploring. 

Reaching up, Bucky begins hastily yanking at the knot of the bowtie he’s just finished tying, dropping it to the floor unceremoniously as he works at the buttons on Clint’s shirt. He gets the first three undone, despite Clint’s very distracting mouth and the fact that Clint is fumbling with the cuffs of his shirt, and then Clint reaches behind and yanks the shirt up and over his head, tossing it away. He has to pull away from Bucky to do it, and Bucky drags in deep gulps of air, his entire body feeling like a livewire. 

Bucky has time to wince at how much worse the wrinkling in the shirt is going to be after this, and then he’s distracted by miles of skin and muscle stretched out on display. It’s bruised in random places, all in various stages of healing, but it doesn’t detract from Clint’s attractiveness at all. He presses his thumb into a bruise just below Clint’s collarbone, gently testing out how sore it is, and Clint lets out a wet-sounding gasp. Bucky’s eyes flick to his face, but his eyes are closed and his mouth is slack, the look on his face anything but pain. Bucky moves his hand, running his fingertips over the warm, smooth skin of Clint’s side, then down to follow the trail of curly hair beneath his belly button until he’s cupping Clint’s dick under his palm. 

Clint shudders under his touch, his head dropping forward to land on Bucky’s shoulder. Bucky gives him a firm squeeze, and Clint moans. Edging forward, Bucky forces Clint back a couple of steps, then slithers to the floor, pressing his face up against the bulge in Clint’s pants and breathing hotly. Clint braces himself on the edges of the counter, looking at Bucky with some kind of combination of want and surprise written on his face. 

“Condom?” Bucky asks, dragging his mouth across the wool. 

He hears fumbling above his head, the sound of Clint rattling around in a drawer, and then a foil package is pressed into his waiting hand. Bucky unbuttons and unzips Clint’s pants, taking in the frankly ridiculous comic-print boxer briefs he’s wearing, then pulls out his cock. The cock isn’t ridiculous at all, in fact it makes Bucky want to drool, because it’s thick and heavy, and Bucky can’t wait to get his mouth on it. 

The condom rolls on easily and Bucky chases it with his mouth, pressing the rounded barbell of his tongue ring along the vein at the bottom and against the bundle of nerves against the head, making Clint gasp and groan. It only takes a few bobs of his head before Clint is burying his hand in Bucky’s hair, tugging it out of the low knot he’d tied it in. Bucky hopes he doesn’t have to redo the braiding too, but if he does it’ll be worth it. He moans when Clint’s hands get caught in his hair, pulling sharply, and Clint’s hips jerk in response. There’s a pause that makes Bucky look up to find Clint staring down at him, and then Clint very deliberately pulls Bucky’s hair, fisting it between his fingers and exerting steady pressure as he rocks his hips slowly. 

Bucky moans again, his eyes fluttering briefly shut. 

Clint fucks his mouth in short, sharp thrusts, holding Bucky still the whole time, while Bucky uses his tongue on every sensitive place he can reach, pressing it up when Clint withdraws and sucking sharply, flicking it over the head just before he thrusts back in. Clint is panting, harsh gasps of air forcing their way out of his chest, and Bucky wraps his fingers around Clint’s hips for balance. He pushes the metal tips of his fingers into a truly spectacular bruise along Clint’s hipbone, and whatever spark of pain it causes sends Clint over the edge with a high-pitched keening sound, his cock throbbing between Bucky’s lips as his thrusts get short and jerky and uncoordinated. 

Bucky holds Clint in his mouth until he’s softening between his lips, then lets him out of his mouth with a final flick of his tongue. It drags another groan out of Clint’s throat, something soft and wounded, and then he’s pulling Bucky to his feet by his hair. He wedges Bucky against the counter as he kisses the taste of latex from his mouth, fumbling at the button of Bucky’s pants. 

“Fuck you’re gorgeous,” Clint pants, as he finally manages to get Bucky’s pants open and shoved down his thighs, dragging his teeth along the muscle between Bucky’s neck and shoulder.

Whatever Bucky would have said is lost in a breathy exhalation when Clint wraps his calloused hand around Bucky’s dick. “Oh fuck,” he manages, swallowing against the way his neck is arched into Clint’s grip and squirming under Clint’s touch. Clint’s grip is firm and sure as he strokes Bucky’s cock, spreading precome down the shaft enough to ease the dryness of his grip and make Bucky shiver. He’s got Bucky pinned with his big body, his legs pressing against Bucky’s thighs to hold him up, the pull against his scalp holding him in place as Clint very deliberately takes him apart. “Jesus,” he gasps, when Clint thumbs at the metal ring just under the head of his cock.

“Just Clint,” Clint says, sounding wrecked despite the attempt at humor. 

Bucky opens his eyes blearily to find Clint staring down at him, alternating between watching his hand work and staring at Bucky’s face, at his slack mouth and exposed throat. 

“Bet you’re real pretty when you come,” Clint says, and Bucky can’t help the way he jerks into Clint’s grip. He’s been called a lot of things, but _pretty_ is a new one, he thinks, as he bites his lip and comes all over Clint’s hand with a whine. Bucky slumps into Clint’s chest as Clint’s grip on his hair eases, his fingers stroking through the tangled strands with surprising gentleness as he cups Bucky’s softening cock. He shifts his shoulder, nudging Bucky’s face up so that he can kiss him just as tenderly, and something in Bucky’s chest cracks a little. 

“So,” Clint says, once Bucky’s caught his breath and all his brain function has returned. He’s rinsing his hand off in the sink, and luckily neither one of them have come on their pants, thank god for small favors. Bucky is already contemplating Clint’s shirt where it’s in a heap on the floor and wondering if he can salvage it. “Do you want to be my date to my best friend’s wedding?”

**

“You were late,” the slim, pretty Asian bride tells Clint, leaning up on tiptoes to kiss his cheek. The invitation had been for Katherine and America, and between her and the curly-haired Latina in a stunning white pantsuit, Bucky’s not even going to try and guess who’s who. “But your tie is tied and you look presentable, so I’ll allow it. Who’s this?” She jerks a thumb at Bucky, who’s carefully tucked under Clint’s arm with a broad palm resting possessively on his hip. Bucky is almost completely enveloped by the breadth of Clint, and he loves it.

Across the room, Natalia is arm-in-arm with a tall blond man who looks completely baffled every time he glances down at her, and who looks vaguely familiar to Bucky in a way that he feels he should recognize. He’s already refunded her money on Venmo, because it feels weird to keep it since he’s hoping to keep Clint instead.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so very, very much to Nny and Amy who both encouraged and then beta read this fic. Nny's selfless commacide and Amy's willingness to tell me when my sentences don't make a bit of fucking sense were instrumental in making this fic better in every way. Much love to you both. 
> 
> Also, thanks for not letting me name it from _The Iliad_.


End file.
